Chapter Ten
Eli sat in the dim control room, the only light coming from the glow of several large screens that lined the far wall.
Beside him, Blake tapped at a tablet while Ty sat forward in his chair, elbows on knees, eyes locked on the live feeds from the outer perimeter.
The Ridge was a fortress now—patrols, sensors, trip wires—all of it running through the silent hum of data around them.
Yet somehow, it still didn’t feel like enough.
He adjusted his comms, the low buzz of channel chatter coming through.
Oren’s voice murmured orders on the ground, moving with Ezra and the five active Pathfinders through the woods behind the construction site.
The rest of the reinforcements were stationed in defense—surrounding Ridge House, sweeping near the bunkers, keeping a silent guard over Ricky and Ezra’s home, where the kids were tucked into the safe room.
Eli leaned closer to the mic and said quietly, “Bateman, what about Bravo?”
Bateman’s voice responded low and direct over comms. “Didn’t bring them in full force. But Dev’s here. Brought Glenn, Maddox, and Sam with him. They’re covering the high ground and outer perimeter. Nobody’s getting in without going through them first. And they’re on this channel, too.”
Eli let out a breath, tension easing slightly. Dev’s calm professionalism always had that effect.
Then came the banter, like a balm in the storm.
“Technically,” Dale drawled over the comms, “I’m neutral in this little Pathfinder vs Bravo tug of war. Hybrid immunity. Maddox and I get dual citizenship.”
Bateman’s voice growled low. “You’re Pathfinder, Dale. Don’t push your luck.”
Dev snorted. “Please. Maddox is ours. You just borrowed him when we weren’t looking.”
“Facts,” Glenn chimed in, amusement rich in his tone. “And we never got a receipt when we took him back.”
“Jesus,” Maddox said dryly. “What am I, a commodity? At least give me a heads up if you’re gonna auction me off. Feels like you should have paid more for me.”
“You love it,” Dale said, smirking. “Admit it.”
“Love you all like STDs,” Maddox replied. “Persistent. Occasionally flaring up. Hard to get rid of.”
Even Bateman snorted at that.
For a moment, it felt almost normal. Like just another mission with too much sarcasm and too many egos. And Eli clung to that, to the sense of something real before the chaos erupted.
The minutes ticked by in quiet observation. Nothing moved. The feeds showed trees, shadows, and wind rippling through leaves. Then Marsh’s voice cut in, taut and focused.
“Movement. East forest line. About twenty-five-no thirty. Trained formation. Six teams of five. Moving like they’ve done this before.”
Eli’s heart kicked up. He stared at the screens. “I don’t see anything.”
“One sec,” Marsh answered.
The screen flickered. Eli blinked as the visuals shifted—infrared overlays now replaced the normal views. Heat signatures lit up the forest in ghostly red, glowing like embers. Dozens of them, walking in staggered lines. Already past the gates.
Ty swore low. “Shit. They’re already on the Ridge.”
Eli leaned forward. “How the hell did they get in that close without tripping anything?”
“Because I let them,” Marsh’s voice returned with a smirk audible in it. “Hard to have a party if the guests of honor can’t even make it to the door. And didn’t say I made it easy, though. A few of them are limping. Gave ‘em a little encouragement on the way in.”
Dev chimed in, cool and dry. “That wire you set took out one bastard’s ankle three minutes ago. He’s still crawling. It’s embarrassing to watch.”
Sam added, “I’ve got eyes on a second group coming around from the west. Three minutes behind the main.”
“Count?” Marsh asked.
“Two teams of five,” Sam answered, his tone unfazed. That put them up against forty men.
Glenn’s voice cut in, amused, “Finally. A reunion with a purpose. We bringing drinks to this party or just fire?”
Hogan added with a low chuckle, “I brought fire—and marshmallows. Thought we’d make it a proper gathering before the fireworks really start.”
Dale came on next. “Oren, you look hot on infrared. Just saying.”
Oren responded flatly, “Eyes on your field, Romeo.”
“Can’t help it,” Dale replied. “You’re basically glowing. It does something for a soldier like me.”
Ty smirked, but didn’t comment. Eli saw the expression on the handsome man’s face. Not jealousy—something else. Maybe curiosity.
Then the tempo shifted. A shot cracked in the distance—sharp, singular. Then silence.
“Contact,” Ezra’s voice said tightly. “Small arms fire. Just a test.”
Another pop. Then return fire from the Pathfinders. The battle hadn’t erupted yet, but the air thrummed with anticipation.
Eli stared at the screen, watching two red figures break formation.
“Watch left flank,” Marsh called. “They’re testing our edges. Good luck with that, boys.”
And then—
Eli watched as a heat signature stepped into one of the cleared corridors near the therapy wing. A sharp click. Then an explosion lit the view in a burst of white across the screen.
Two figures were thrown backwards through the air, landing hard.
Dev’s voice cut in, dry as sandpaper. “Damn, Bateman, I told you you shoulda put up those signs. Trespassers will get blown up.”
Eli stared at the screen, at the way two human silhouettes had flown like ragdolls under the thermal overlay. The heat shimmered, pulsing faintly where bodies had landed hard.
There was laughter in the comms. The kind that sounded too relaxed for what was about to come. But it steadied him. He looked at Blake, then Ty, and neither of them looked away from the screen.
It was surreal. The sarcasm, the bravado, the way they all made room for humor even now—especially now. Like this wasn’t the opening act of a bloody play, one they’d all rehearsed but none truly wanted to perform. And yet, the curtain was already rising.
****
The pop of gunfire cracked like dry wood in the distance, and Marsh didn’t even flinch.
He crouched behind the stack of overturned steel beams at the edge of the construction zone, rifle snug against his shoulder, eyes sweeping the trees beyond the half-finished therapy wing.
Around him, the Pathfinders moved with seamless precision—Bateman to his left behind a cinderblock stack, Dale watching their six from the eastern side, Hogan and Ricky flanking the northern arc with a two-man sweep.
“Contact, east tree line,” Bateman’s voice came over comms, low and lethal. “Two down.”
“Confirmed,” Glenn said, from somewhere high and invisible. A single shot echoed a breath later, clean as a scalpel. “Three. Left shoulder, top of ridge.”
“Show off,” Dale muttered, ducking low as a spray of bullets stitched bark nearby.
“Still can’t convince him to go Pathfinder,” Bateman growled. “It’s insulting.”
“Because we have standards,” Dev’s voice cut in.
“You let Dale in,” Glenn replied.
“Hey,” Dale objected.
“Exactly,” Glenn deadpanned.
Marsh cracked a grin but didn’t shift his focus. “Keep it up. I need a count. We drop below ten, we move to sweep.”
“Copy that,” Ricky said. “I’ve got rear perimeter with Hogan. No motion yet.”
Another shot rang out. Ezra’s voice followed. “Guy tried to flank near the drainage ditch. He won’t be trying again.”
Marsh swept his scope, heart thudding steady, cold, the way it always did in a fight. Controlled. Focused. Until—
A scuffle of motion to the south. Two figures. Close. Too close.
“Oren?” Marsh snapped.
“Engaged,” came the reply—tight, strained.
The next noise wasn’t over comms. It was real. A grunt. Flesh hitting earth. Then a pained curse.
“Oren!” Ty’s voice flared, more emotion than command.
Marsh turned in time to see Dale vault over the rebar stack like a man possessed.
The flirty charm vanished, replaced by a predator’s focus honed by years of battle.
He landed low and fast, shoulder driving into the attacker’s midsection to knock him off balance.
The man slashed with a blade—too late. Dale caught the wrist, twisted until Marsh was sure he heard bones pop over comms, and forced the weapon free.
The knife hit the ground, but Dale wasn’t done. He drove his knee into the man’s ribs, following with a vicious elbow to the throat. As the attacker staggered back, gasping, Dale seized him by the collar and drove him face-first into the dirt, a sharp crack silencing him for good.
Panting, Dale stood over the body, blood on his hands, chest heaving not from exertion—but rage. Cold, focused rage. The kind, Marsh knew, that only surfaced when someone he cared about got hurt.
The man didn’t rise again.
Dale turned and moved toward Oren, who still lay crumpled on the ground, one hand pressed to his bleeding shoulder.
He hadn’t moved much—whether from pain or shock, Marsh didn’t know—but Dale dropped to one knee beside him instantly, expression tightening with worry.
His hands, still slick with blood, hovered for a beat before he reached to check the wound.
“You still with me?” Dale asked, voice quieter now.
Oren blinked up at him and gave a nod. “Ah, yep, still here.”
“Oren?” Marsh barked.
“I’m fine,” Oren said in a low voice. “Knife to the shoulder, not deep. I got one. Dale got the other.”
Marsh exhaled. “Good. Stay down. Hogan, cover him.”
“Already on it,” Hogan’s voice came, steady again.
The channel buzzed.
“Vehicle,” Sam said. “Black SUV, just cleared the tree line. Three heat signatures—driver, passenger, one in the back.”
Marsh’s blood went cold.
“The Colonel,” he said. “He’s here.”
He didn’t say Eli’s name. Didn’t need to. Everyone knew how this would have affected him.
Marsh shifted positions, moving closer to the front of the site. Moving to meet the colonel head on.
Not on my watch. You don’t get to touch him. You don’t get to look at him. You don’t get to breathe the same goddamn air. I swore I’d keep him safe, and I won’t break that promise. Not today.